1. Suitcase
1. Umbrella
1. Mandolin
1. Expired Ticket
Suitcase Inventory:
1. Pen
1. Ink Vial
1. Bound Journal
24. Photographs
1. Rose
1. Glasses
1. Knife
2. Letters, adressed to Francis
2. Letters, adressed from Francis
Journal Inscription:
Hello, my name is Francis Du'Mort. If you're reading this, I have completed my pilgrimage and I am certain that I have no regrets whatsoever. I will describe, in my free time, the events that pass as I travel the coast and experience what I should hope to be a very interesting life. Should I, at any point, lose track of this book, everything I hope to discover will be a waste, for only my eyes have seen what there may be out there, and the world will be none the greater for my sight. I only hope that I can hold on to this volume until I reach my destination.
Journal Entry:
Hello dear reader, I have just settled myself into my cab on the train. It was a horrible nuissance getting onto the metal behemoth, a terrible line at The Canal. Something is telling me this is more impressive and undertaking than most would care to denote. As I stood in the line of hopefuls, I was every wave I saw crashing against the steel that holds the great tracks up. I was every sliver of gravel wishing to inch forward, simply to be above the ocean. I felt like I would never leave, and I kept worrying I would weather my ticket from fingering it so much, but I finally got on, in, etc.
There is no map, there is no evidence of knowing where this rust monster will take us. I am elated at this fact.
Several of my compatriots seem confused and weary, like one just awakened. My mind though, oh it's bursting at it's seams. I don't know anything of the world beyond the steps of the very station from which I have just departed. I am open and ready, less like a sponge and more like a voracious vacuum for knowledge and experience. These first few days, I feel, will be a testing ground for the lot of us on the train, finding our legs and our brains amongst the ceaseless chugging sound and unimagineable visions just outside our windows.
I don't even know how to talk to them, we're all so different.
My goals, as stand, are to find my place amongst this lot, on this train, and in this world. Lofty, but I see no evidence that anything is impossible here. I am bright and new, fresh with powder almost, and awaiting all of the passages, and passengers, before me.
-All my love,
Francis
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